Poetry Bobbi Sinha-Morey

Bobbi Sinha-Morey

The  Community Garden

I thought of visiting the community
garden only one block away if ever
I were impoverished and needed to
make vegetables grow. Me, never
having been born with a green thumb,
having pruned plants only once in
my life, but willing to buy a packet
of seeds and grimly give it a go.
That's when I went outside my
mobile home, walked the distance
to a small untended area hemmed
in by a mesh wire fence. No one
was there, but I'd seen a sign of
growth—thimbleberries, both red
and black, and when I looked
closely I touched their hard, drying
fruit. I'd longed to clean the memory
of the abandoned garden, wondering
if it could ever be saved. It was then
a tiny hope rose inside of me, and
for one dollar I bought some seeds.
I tore up the thimbleberries, and
with a pitcher of water I did my
best to plant some mums in their
place. Days later I returned one
afternoon, below the quietest sky
in the last of summer, a gentle
wind spilling its breath on my
skin. Buds had maturely formed
in the garden, and as time elapsed
the lips of mums opened, smiling
in their red brilliance.
***

The Young Rose

Waiting by the river in
the icy rain, watching my
husband searching for agates
on what he says is a perfect
day, I stand there shivering,
wishing I could also find
a golden specimen or two,
seeing if anything would
twinkle up at me saying it
were a gem. Hours spent on
the gravel bar, and without
any luck I sit down, hoping
he'd call it a day and we'd go
home. It was only then, my
hands numbs and shaking,
I saw a young rose at my feet,
miraculously saved from decay
at this time of season. I stared
at it raptly, a rose so perfect
glistening in the water that had
dropped on its petals, having
brought me new air to fill my
lungs, its beauty keeping me
warm, my meager coat so thin,
and the shy rose hummed a
song of love inside my heart
I couldn't resist.
***

Skylight

Above the skylight
I saw a lost feather
lacing the air, a sleek
red like that of a cardinal,
and I hoped the astute bird
was still in its flight. I stood
on a chair and peered up
in the morning sky, wishing
I could catch sight of its wings,
its regal breast, imagining
the dignity it felt flying high
til its feather loosened in the
wind and made a downward
path as if swirling from heaven.
It was when the sun rose
its highest did I see the kingly
head. He lit upon the roof
and for a minute eyed me
from the skylight with a
curious inflection of its head;
then in only a second he
proudly opened his beak
and I patiently listened as.
he begun to sing

Setu, September 2019